


Passiveaggresiva Queen

by cranky__crocus



Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-27
Updated: 2010-09-27
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranky__crocus/pseuds/cranky__crocus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Addison and Erica manoeuvre through one of their first real disagreements. They segue into a day at the hospital and an evening of stories and entertainment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Passiveaggresiva Queen

**Author's Note:**

> Again written based on my initial or secondary watching of Grey's Anatomy. Just taking what I learned about Addison and applying it to one of her later relationships.

I.

 

                “You disrespected me,” Erica terminates with her fierce scowl. I hate when that scowl is directed at me. She has such a beautiful face; it is disfigured by her anger, at least when pointed at me. I see the note of hypocrisy when I consider that if the anger were directed at another, especially in the name of my personal honour, I would find her fierceness beautiful.

            I sigh and gaze at the pithy woman.

            There are so many things I could say. She didn’t want to be seen engaging with me romantically at the hospital. We were supposed to be acquaintances, evident out-of-hospital close friends but nothing further. I did not respect that wish. I could say many things, phrases that would more than likely strike up further anger.

            Instead I strike out my hand, not in equal pained grievance but in love. A handshake is my simple request.

            “Hello, I am Queen Addison of the land Passiveagressiva.”

            It must be my face coupled with the hand and statement, because her features are contorting—half of her wants to laugh, the other wants to cling to the scowl.

            “I’m sorry, Erica. It is an ugly side of me. When I don’t get my way, I get even under the table.” I reach out and take her hand. “It’s not fair for me to affect your professional name in my desire to prove a point.”

            She raises an eyebrow and watches me, but I feel her fingers squeeze my hand. I’m getting somewhere.

            A sigh escapes as I look down and rest my other hand atop hers. “I feel very limited by your decision. You are my lover and friend. I know we both want to scream it from rooftops—I also know we have no reason to.”

            I look up and search her deep blue eyes. She’s listening intently. I smile, weakly. “Is there not some common ground we could attain? Some middle, grey area?”

            She winces. I laugh.

            “No, no, not capital Grey. Even _I_ don’t want to be like that anymore.”

            Erica and her personal Doctor Hahn are relieved.

            “But isn’t there a middle ground we can acquiesce to out of love and the need for compromise?” I question earnestly. I feel my eyebrows rise out of my flood of emotion. My voice is faltering some. “I try to tell myself you are not ashamed of me, that it is just your strict professionalism—which I have always admired. I can only reach myself on a mental level with constant reminders; I still feel stung when I can’t occasionally give your hand a squeeze while we’re both at work. I feel deserted.”

            The anger previously etched in the blonde’s face has softened. Her stance follows until she’s in motion and holding me, stroking my hair. I have silent tears. I am too comforted by her presence for outright sobs.

            “Oh, Addie, why didn’t you _tell_ me this?”

            “I tried to.” Her neck stiffens. I sigh softly. “Passive aggressively.”

            Her laugh is slightly bitter, but I don’t hold it against her. I hold me against her instead.

            “I haven’t graduated from adult to mature adult yet,” I tell her in what I hope is a soothing tone. “You’re my last class, I think. Saving the best instructor for last.”

            “You, a teacher-fancier?” she’s smiling at last. She pulls away and looks at me, searching my face in entirety. “Addie, we can compromise. I didn’t know this was hurting you so much.”

            She sits down on the couch—she had previously paced—and pats the cushion beside her. I can see she is deep in contemplation.

            “Lunch times. We can be romantic at lunch times. I draw the line at direct PDAs and cutesy Grey stuff, but close sitting and hand brushing, things like that...acceptable. We can discuss when certain actions come up.”

            She still looks filled to the brim with words and thoughts. I decide merely to nod to show I hear and understand.

            “During other times we can appear as close friends. If one of us is upset or overjoyed, intimate displays of comfort or enthusiasm are fine. Occasional inside jokes.” She’s beginning to smile at the idea of this. “As long as others are comfortable, we may be good friends and girlfriends.”

            My heart warms and flies free. I throw my arms around her and kiss her neck.

            “Thank you, Erica, thank you. That’s more than I needed to hear and makes me feel wonderful. I knew you weren’t ashamed of me.”

            “Of course not!” Her laughter booms as she scoops me up into her lap. Her hand brushes over my body from breast to knee, as if showing me off to an audience perched near the television. “How could I be ashamed of this?”

            I kiss her deeply, humming from deep within as electricity shocks my system.

            “We can even hold hands entering and exiting the hospital when we’re both on a case. When you’re just visiting, we can hold hands more often.”

            I let my thrilled moan escape and bite her lower lip.

            “Well, you’ve lost your activity for the evening,” I tease her. “I’m all used up.”

            She tickles my side.

            “Liar. I know you’re a multi-woman.”

            “Shush. Now is not the time for speech. Now is the time for congratulatory sex for our fabulous communication.”

            I relax into the feel of her laughter as she undoes the buttons of my blouse.

 

II.

                I push myself off the wall when I see a polka-dot scrub cap emerge from the operating wing. She hasn’t even bothered to pull the cap off. Normally she would be frowning playfully at me for waiting for her through a surgery, thinking I’m silly.

            Instead her head is hung. I’m confused; this was a reasonably easy procedure for her, just the regular in the life of Erica Hahn. It was very unlikely she’d lost the patient.

            “Erica?” I call gently. This worries me.

            She looks up and groans. I reach up and untie her mask, as her hands seem content to hang loosely at her side. I gingerly pull back the scrub cap and tuck it in her pocket before removing her hair elastic and fingering her hair around her neck.

            “Erica? Talk to me before I start using embarrassing endearments on you.” She finally looks up. For once in my life, I can’t read her face. “Dear, what’s going on? Did the surgery go well?”

            “The surgery was perfect,” she tells me in a peculiar voice. She bites her lip and looks down, then crosses her arms. “But I’ve ruined myself.”

            I blanch. This is an alternate universe, right? Dr. Erica Hahn does not say ‘ruined myself’—she says ‘ruin you’, with a scowl at indecent practice.

            “Erica, explain _right now_. My hair is seeping.” Code phrase for my temper is flaring: my red hair is seeping, my temper is growing red hot. Conversation from one wine-filled Friday evening.

            “An intern was acting up in surgery, kept joking around and fooling with the equipment.”

            “I can imagine he or she is now hanging by the thumbs in the dungeons?”

            “That’s the way it _should_ go,” Erica muttered, but she shook her tussled blonde head. “I tried to tell her off. Do you know what I said?”

            “Something about steak knives and dragons?”

            A smile tugs at the corner of her lips but it disappears instantly.

            “I said, ‘you’re tasting my wine.’”

            I laugh out loud and pull her in for a hug, which she grumbles at. I can’t help my laughter.

            “Oh you poor dear!” I say, careful to keep away from a patronising tone. “A spoonerism in surgery! ‘You’re wasting my time,’ ‘you’re tasting my wine.’”

            Her blue eyes jump with raw pleasure. “You knew right away! How do you do that?”

            “I,” I respond immediately, quirky grin in place, “am a genius. You are the girlfriend of a genius.”

            “And you,” she retorts soon after, “are the girlfriend of a buffoon.”

            She’s back to groaning and lifting her hand up to cover her face. No one else is in the operating wing, so she’s free to be closer to herself. I can’t stifle my chuckle.

            “I am not! We all slip.”

            “I, Doctor Erica Hahn, am not supposed to slip. Not to an intern. Not while _berating_ an intern for being stupid and unable to control herself.” Another groan. “All the while I can’t even control my own tongue.”

            I waggle my eyebrows and kiss her cheek. “My dear, I think you have perfect control of your tongue. Impeccable control. If your tongue could perform cardiothoracic surgery, you would be number one in the world.”

            “Thank you,” she replies earnestly; she’s smiling in that humoured way I so adore. “Get me out of here.”

            “There is nothing I would rather do. Do you need help showering, Doctor Hahn?”

            “Yes, Doctor Montgomery, thank you for the assistance,” she answers in her best Dr. Hahn voice, “I believe I have something to teach you about soaping technique for scrubbing down.”

            “Scrubbing in, you mean?”

            “Right...yes that.” Her laughter is keen.

            I smirk and tuck my arm in around her waist as I lead her to the lift. “Well, you won’t be tasting my wine.”

            “Oh, but I will,” she promises. And winks.

            Oh, my God. Dr. Hahn winked at me. She _better_ be tasting my wine.

 

 

III.

 

            We’re back at home eating steak by candlelight, because when it comes down to it we’re both just hopeless romantics. Even the supposedly heartless Dr. Erica Hahn benefits from the glow of some candlelight and the aroma of a blooming rose.

            “I saved her once, you know,” I start with a smile, waiting for her hidden perplexed look. It is quick in coming. I am far too enthralled with baiting Erica’s cute facial expressions. I know she comprehends exactly what I’m doing, though, so all is forgiven.

            “Who?” she asks. Her mind graces quickly over our last conversation and a smile appears. “Not Wonderwoman, you don’t say.”

            I’m embarrassed by our last point of conversation. Super People. Seriously, Addison? But I’m smiling.

            “No, Izzie Stevens. Time for backstory.”

            “Yes, please explain. There’s nothing I love more with candles and romance than conversation about Doctor Stevens,” she twangs. I know she’s pulling my leg. She’s long over the Izzie Stevens problem and _I_ know that Erica is interested in hearing _anything_ I have to say.

            “You know that Bailey has a child, right?” I check, my head canted. When she nods I continue. “Well, she did _not_ want to leave the hospital. She was having false contractions. I urged her to take some time but she refused. I set Izzie on her, to make sure all was well—Izzie wasn’t speaking to me then, but she understood that my request was for Bailey’s safety rather than a favour to me.”

            Erica chuckles. She remembers Bailey’s ardour for work and the hospital itself. “She wouldn’t leave?”

            “Not until she started contracting in operations and could no longer work,” I affirm with a laugh. “When I asked her if she knew what bed rest was she replied ‘hell’ without a second thought.”

            This draws a great laugh from Erica. She takes a sip of her wine and knits her fingers on the table top, interested in the story I have to share.

            “Bailey was finally out for bed rest. Izzie, Mer, Alex, George and Cristina were all set a-whisperin’ about what resident they would end up with.” I pause and wait until Erica’s head strains forward the slightest amount, our little game to announce she was very interested. I smile and raise an eyebrow with a quick look around, as if I were about to give away a deep secret. My eyes land on hers again to take in the absorbed mirth there. “Did you come across Doctor Sydney Heron in your time at Seattle Grace?”

            “Why yes, I did have a Sydney-induced headache for three days, if that’s what you’re asking.” Erica shakes her head at the memory but she’s laughing at what I assume to be the memory of Sydney’s overly perky personality.

            “Sydney was their new resident. Her first move was to hug Yang—”

            “Hug Yang!” is the blonde’s latest outburst. “That’s like a stranger trying to hold my hand!”

            “Exactly.” We share a smile over Erica’s work persona, as well as her general aversion to touch—except with good friends; in all honesty she is a very physical person with people close to her heart. I continue. “All the interns but Stevens had something to do. She hated me, but I saw her distress. I walked by with a consult and scooped her away under my wing. I couldn’t help it. She was so relieved.”

            “Understandably!”

            I shake my head. “Sydney as a resident. That would have ended my surgical career before it got started.

            “You never had me.”

            “We’re trading comedic stories here, darling, not horror stories and intern nightmares.”

            The delicate flower that is Erica Hahn flips me the bird. I blow her a kiss. We’re grown up, sometimes...

 

 

IV.

 

            Our film is finished. It was pretty stupid. We don’t bother turning off the TV when it’s through, we just mute the credits.

            “Bailey wasn’t the only mother, you know,” I say as I rest back into Erica’s comfortable side. She plays with my hair, ready for more Seattle Grace story time. It’s healing for both of us. It is a wound we both share, a medical issue we both triumphed over but that left marks on both of us—marks that heal the more we acknowledge them.

            “The case I brought for Stevens during Sydney’s Rule. Originally I kept her on the case because she was skilled with neonatal, especially with the patients. After witnessing her with this teenage pregnant woman, Cheyenne, I knew Stevens was perfect for the case. It was uncanny how perfect. I didn’t understand why.”

            “But you do now?” Erica urges, authentically curious. She’s probably putting things together as I speak.

            “Izzie visited Cheyenne once after work hours. I was home with Derek by that time. I checked in on Cheyenne early the next morning. She told me how much she liked her doctors. Before I left she quietly asked me if I could keep a secret.”

            Erica raises her eyebrows. The idea of who I am is torn for most people—half believe I’m a wonderful friend who takes secrets to the grave, the other believe I’m a twitter-pated censor-less secret-spewing machine.

            “I told Cheyenne I could and sat with her. She explained to me about reading her child-to-be Shakespeare and how for kids in the trailer parks, school was one of the true levellers. A trailer park kid could do just as well as the rich in a regular school, provided she was smart and put in a little effort. Cheyenne loved school and the idea that she could be someone someday.”

            I feel a hand on mine and smile as Erica connects our fingers.

            “Cheyenne told me about what it was like to have a doctor who shared her background, trailer parks and babies in the teen years. I was happy to hear that from a patient. She let me know that the interaction had really set her to thinking about her future and what to do after birth.”

            I take a breath. “That’s how I found out Stevens had been a mother. At 16, too.”

            “She gave the baby up for adoption?”

            I nod against Erica’s soft breast and sigh, smiling softly and sadly. “It came out later, too, but that’s the first time I heard it. Izzie still doesn’t know I found out then. I’m happy to know there is a baby in the world with genes from such a compassionate woman. With some sense, the child will be a beautiful soul.”

            Erica hums her assent and I feel it against my back. I feel comforted.

            “I feel stupid for wishing that had happened to me. I only wish it now, I never wished it then.” I bite my lip before I go on. “There’s another Izzie in the world somewhere. There is not another Addison. There never will be. I gave that chance up: I may not have murdered a person, but I murdered a future that would have been linked with mine. Now I’ve dried up as a woman.”

            The woman beneath me shifts and I feel lips pressed delicately against my temple. Her cheek presses against my hair and temple. I feel wetness drip down onto my cheekbone and turn to press my cheek against hers.

            “You’re crying,” I point out needlessly.

            “I am.” She strokes my hair. “Your heartfelt speeches can do that to a person. Especially this person.”

            I wrap myself around her. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be. I am. You’ve wanted a child for so long. I can’t give you that. All I know is that you’ll still have your chance, and even if it can’t be your proper half genes, any child brought up by you will be so uniquely Addison it will amaze the world.”

            I will never get used to inspirational, loving speeches from Erica. I have always known that they occur from Callie, who used to call me occasionally, even when the two were only friends, to paraphrase Erica’s supportive speeches over an evening of wine. Hearing something so personally close to home brushes my heart.

            “Thank you, Erica,” I whisper into her neck. “Do you think we should be mothers?”

Erica turns to look at me so wholesomely I shiver. She grasps my hand again.

            “I think we should. I’m in my forties now, we’re financially secure and in love...”

            She smiles and kisses me.

I.

 

                “You disrespected me,” Erica terminates with her fierce scowl. I hate when that scowl is directed at me. She has such a beautiful face; it is disfigured by her anger, at least when pointed at me. I see the note of hypocrisy when I consider that if the anger were directed at another, especially in the name of my personal honour, I would find her fierceness beautiful.

            I sigh and gaze at the pithy woman.

            There are so many things I could say. She didn’t want to be seen engaging with me romantically at the hospital. We were supposed to be acquaintances, evident out-of-hospital close friends but nothing further. I did not respect that wish. I could say many things, phrases that would more than likely strike up further anger.

            Instead I strike out my hand, not in equal pained grievance but in love. A handshake is my simple request.

            “Hello, I am Queen Addison of the land Passiveagressiva.”

            It must be my face coupled with the hand and statement, because her features are contorting—half of her wants to laugh, the other wants to cling to the scowl.

            “I’m sorry, Erica. It is an ugly side of me. When I don’t get my way, I get even under the table.” I reach out and take her hand. “It’s not fair for me to affect your professional name in my desire to prove a point.”

            She raises an eyebrow and watches me, but I feel her fingers squeeze my hand. I’m getting somewhere.

            A sigh escapes as I look down and rest my other hand atop hers. “I feel very limited by your decision. You are my lover and friend. I know we both want to scream it from rooftops—I also know we have no reason to.”

            I look up and search her deep blue eyes. She’s listening intently. I smile, weakly. “Is there not some common ground we could attain? Some middle, grey area?”

            She winces. I laugh.

            “No, no, not capital Grey. Even _I_ don’t want to be like that anymore.”

            Erica and her personal Doctor Hahn are relieved.

            “But isn’t there a middle ground we can acquiesce to out of love and the need for compromise?” I question earnestly. I feel my eyebrows rise out of my flood of emotion. My voice is faltering some. “I try to tell myself you are not ashamed of me, that it is just your strict professionalism—which I have always admired. I can only reach myself on a mental level with constant reminders; I still feel stung when I can’t occasionally give your hand a squeeze while we’re both at work. I feel deserted.”

            The anger previously etched in the blonde’s face has softened. Her stance follows until she’s in motion and holding me, stroking my hair. I have silent tears. I am too comforted by her presence for outright sobs.

            “Oh, Addie, why didn’t you _tell_ me this?”

            “I tried to.” Her neck stiffens. I sigh softly. “Passive aggressively.”

            Her laugh is slightly bitter, but I don’t hold it against her. I hold me against her instead.

            “I haven’t graduated from adult to mature adult yet,” I tell her in what I hope is a soothing tone. “You’re my last class, I think. Saving the best instructor for last.”

            “You, a teacher-fancier?” she’s smiling at last. She pulls away and looks at me, searching my face in entirety. “Addie, we can compromise. I didn’t know this was hurting you so much.”

            She sits down on the couch—she had previously paced—and pats the cushion beside her. I can see she is deep in contemplation.

            “Lunch times. We can be romantic at lunch times. I draw the line at direct PDAs and cutesy Grey stuff, but close sitting and hand brushing, things like that...acceptable. We can discuss when certain actions come up.”

            She still looks filled to the brim with words and thoughts. I decide merely to nod to show I hear and understand.

            “During other times we can appear as close friends. If one of us is upset or overjoyed, intimate displays of comfort or enthusiasm are fine. Occasional inside jokes.” She’s beginning to smile at the idea of this. “As long as others are comfortable, we may be good friends and girlfriends.”

            My heart warms and flies free. I throw my arms around her and kiss her neck.

            “Thank you, Erica, thank you. That’s more than I needed to hear and makes me feel wonderful. I knew you weren’t ashamed of me.”

            “Of course not!” Her laughter booms as she scoops me up into her lap. Her hand brushes over my body from breast to knee, as if showing me off to an audience perched near the television. “How could I be ashamed of this?”

            I kiss her deeply, humming from deep within as electricity shocks my system.

            “We can even hold hands entering and exiting the hospital when we’re both on a case. When you’re just visiting, we can hold hands more often.”

            I let my thrilled moan escape and bite her lower lip.

            “Well, you’ve lost your activity for the evening,” I tease her. “I’m all used up.”

            She tickles my side.

            “Liar. I know you’re a multi-woman.”

            “Shush. Now is not the time for speech. Now is the time for congratulatory sex for our fabulous communication.”

            I relax into the feel of her laughter as she undoes the buttons of my blouse.

 

II.

                I push myself off the wall when I see a polka-dot scrub cap emerge from the operating wing. She hasn’t even bothered to pull the cap off. Normally she would be frowning playfully at me for waiting for her through a surgery, thinking I’m silly.

            Instead her head is hung. I’m confused; this was a reasonably easy procedure for her, just the regular in the life of Erica Hahn. It was very unlikely she’d lost the patient.

            “Erica?” I call gently. This worries me.

            She looks up and groans. I reach up and untie her mask, as her hands seem content to hang loosely at her side. I gingerly pull back the scrub cap and tuck it in her pocket before removing her hair elastic and fingering her hair around her neck.

            “Erica? Talk to me before I start using embarrassing endearments on you.” She finally looks up. For once in my life, I can’t read her face. “Dear, what’s going on? Did the surgery go well?”

            “The surgery was perfect,” she tells me in a peculiar voice. She bites her lip and looks down, then crosses her arms. “But I’ve ruined myself.”

            I blanch. This is an alternate universe, right? Dr. Erica Hahn does not say ‘ruined myself’—she says ‘ruin you’, with a scowl at indecent practice.

            “Erica, explain _right now_. My hair is seeping.” Code phrase for my temper is flaring: my red hair is seeping, my temper is growing red hot. Conversation from one wine-filled Friday evening.

            “An intern was acting up in surgery, kept joking around and fooling with the equipment.”

            “I can imagine he or she is now hanging by the thumbs in the dungeons?”

            “That’s the way it _should_ go,” Erica muttered, but she shook her tussled blonde head. “I tried to tell her off. Do you know what I said?”

            “Something about steak knives and dragons?”

            A smile tugs at the corner of her lips but it disappears instantly.

            “I said, ‘you’re tasting my wine.’”

            I laugh out loud and pull her in for a hug, which she grumbles at. I can’t help my laughter.

            “Oh you poor dear!” I say, careful to keep away from a patronising tone. “A spoonerism in surgery! ‘You’re wasting my time,’ ‘you’re tasting my wine.’”

            Her blue eyes jump with raw pleasure. “You knew right away! How do you do that?”

            “I,” I respond immediately, quirky grin in place, “am a genius. You are the girlfriend of a genius.”

            “And you,” she retorts soon after, “are the girlfriend of a buffoon.”

            She’s back to groaning and lifting her hand up to cover her face. No one else is in the operating wing, so she’s free to be closer to herself. I can’t stifle my chuckle.

            “I am not! We all slip.”

            “I, Doctor Erica Hahn, am not supposed to slip. Not to an intern. Not while _berating_ an intern for being stupid and unable to control herself.” Another groan. “All the while I can’t even control my own tongue.”

            I waggle my eyebrows and kiss her cheek. “My dear, I think you have perfect control of your tongue. Impeccable control. If your tongue could perform cardiothoracic surgery, you would be number one in the world.”

            “Thank you,” she replies earnestly; she’s smiling in that humoured way I so adore. “Get me out of here.”

            “There is nothing I would rather do. Do you need help showering, Doctor Hahn?”

            “Yes, Doctor Montgomery, thank you for the assistance,” she answers in her best Dr. Hahn voice, “I believe I have something to teach you about soaping technique for scrubbing down.”

            “Scrubbing in, you mean?”

            “Right...yes that.” Her laughter is keen.

            I smirk and tuck my arm in around her waist as I lead her to the lift. “Well, you won’t be tasting my wine.”

            “Oh, but I will,” she promises. And winks.

            Oh, my God. Dr. Hahn winked at me. She _better_ be tasting my wine.

 

 

III.

 

            We’re back at home eating steak by candlelight, because when it comes down to it we’re both just hopeless romantics. Even the supposedly heartless Dr. Erica Hahn benefits from the glow of some candlelight and the aroma of a blooming rose.

            “I saved her once, you know,” I start with a smile, waiting for her hidden perplexed look. It is quick in coming. I am far too enthralled with baiting Erica’s cute facial expressions. I know she comprehends exactly what I’m doing, though, so all is forgiven.

            “Who?” she asks. Her mind graces quickly over our last conversation and a smile appears. “Not Wonderwoman, you don’t say.”

            I’m embarrassed by our last point of conversation. Super People. Seriously, Addison? But I’m smiling.

            “No, Izzie Stevens. Time for backstory.”

            “Yes, please explain. There’s nothing I love more with candles and romance than conversation about Doctor Stevens,” she twangs. I know she’s pulling my leg. She’s long over the Izzie Stevens problem and _I_ know that Erica is interested in hearing _anything_ I have to say.

            “You know that Bailey has a child, right?” I check, my head canted. When she nods I continue. “Well, she did _not_ want to leave the hospital. She was having false contractions. I urged her to take some time but she refused. I set Izzie on her, to make sure all was well—Izzie wasn’t speaking to me then, but she understood that my request was for Bailey’s safety rather than a favour to me.”

            Erica chuckles. She remembers Bailey’s ardour for work and the hospital itself. “She wouldn’t leave?”

            “Not until she started contracting in operations and could no longer work,” I affirm with a laugh. “When I asked her if she knew what bed rest was she replied ‘hell’ without a second thought.”

            This draws a great laugh from Erica. She takes a sip of her wine and knits her fingers on the table top, interested in the story I have to share.

            “Bailey was finally out for bed rest. Izzie, Mer, Alex, George and Cristina were all set a-whisperin’ about what resident they would end up with.” I pause and wait until Erica’s head strains forward the slightest amount, our little game to announce she was very interested. I smile and raise an eyebrow with a quick look around, as if I were about to give away a deep secret. My eyes land on hers again to take in the absorbed mirth there. “Did you come across Doctor Sydney Heron in your time at Seattle Grace?”

            “Why yes, I did have a Sydney-induced headache for three days, if that’s what you’re asking.” Erica shakes her head at the memory but she’s laughing at what I assume to be the memory of Sydney’s overly perky personality.

            “Sydney was their new resident. Her first move was to hug Yang—”

            “Hug Yang!” is the blonde’s latest outburst. “That’s like a stranger trying to hold my hand!”

            “Exactly.” We share a smile over Erica’s work persona, as well as her general aversion to touch—except with good friends; in all honesty she is a very physical person with people close to her heart. I continue. “All the interns but Stevens had something to do. She hated me, but I saw her distress. I walked by with a consult and scooped her away under my wing. I couldn’t help it. She was so relieved.”

            “Understandably!”

            I shake my head. “Sydney as a resident. That would have ended my surgical career before it got started.

            “You never had me.”

            “We’re trading comedic stories here, darling, not horror stories and intern nightmares.”

            The delicate flower that is Erica Hahn flips me the bird. I blow her a kiss. We’re grown up, sometimes...

 

 

IV.

 

            Our film is finished. It was pretty stupid. We don’t bother turning off the TV when it’s through, we just mute the credits.

            “Bailey wasn’t the only mother, you know,” I say as I rest back into Erica’s comfortable side. She plays with my hair, ready for more Seattle Grace story time. It’s healing for both of us. It is a wound we both share, a medical issue we both triumphed over but that left marks on both of us—marks that heal the more we acknowledge them.

            “The case I brought for Stevens during Sydney’s Rule. Originally I kept her on the case because she was skilled with neonatal, especially with the patients. After witnessing her with this teenage pregnant woman, Cheyenne, I knew Stevens was perfect for the case. It was uncanny how perfect. I didn’t understand why.”

            “But you do now?” Erica urges, authentically curious. She’s probably putting things together as I speak.

            “Izzie visited Cheyenne once after work hours. I was home with Derek by that time. I checked in on Cheyenne early the next morning. She told me how much she liked her doctors. Before I left she quietly asked me if I could keep a secret.”

            Erica raises her eyebrows. The idea of who I am is torn for most people—half believe I’m a wonderful friend who takes secrets to the grave, the other believe I’m a twitter-pated censor-less secret-spewing machine.

            “I told Cheyenne I could and sat with her. She explained to me about reading her child-to-be Shakespeare and how for kids in the trailer parks, school was one of the true levellers. A trailer park kid could do just as well as the rich in a regular school, provided she was smart and put in a little effort. Cheyenne loved school and the idea that she could be someone someday.”

            I feel a hand on mine and smile as Erica connects our fingers.

            “Cheyenne told me about what it was like to have a doctor who shared her background, trailer parks and babies in the teen years. I was happy to hear that from a patient. She let me know that the interaction had really set her to thinking about her future and what to do after birth.”

            I take a breath. “That’s how I found out Stevens had been a mother. At 16, too.”

            “She gave the baby up for adoption?”

            I nod against Erica’s soft breast and sigh, smiling softly and sadly. “It came out later, too, but that’s the first time I heard it. Izzie still doesn’t know I found out then. I’m happy to know there is a baby in the world with genes from such a compassionate woman. With some sense, the child will be a beautiful soul.”

            Erica hums her assent and I feel it against my back. I feel comforted.

            “I feel stupid for wishing that had happened to me. I only wish it now, I never wished it then.” I bite my lip before I go on. “There’s another Izzie in the world somewhere. There is not another Addison. There never will be. I gave that chance up: I may not have murdered a person, but I murdered a future that would have been linked with mine. Now I’ve dried up as a woman.”

            The woman beneath me shifts and I feel lips pressed delicately against my temple. Her cheek presses against my hair and temple. I feel wetness drip down onto my cheekbone and turn to press my cheek against hers.

            “You’re crying,” I point out needlessly.

            “I am.” She strokes my hair. “Your heartfelt speeches can do that to a person. Especially this person.”

            I wrap myself around her. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be. I am. You’ve wanted a child for so long. I can’t give you that. All I know is that you’ll still have your chance, and even if it can’t be your proper half genes, any child brought up by you will be so uniquely Addison it will amaze the world.”

            I will never get used to inspirational, loving speeches from Erica. I have always known that they occur from Callie, who used to call me occasionally, even when the two were only friends, to paraphrase Erica’s supportive speeches over an evening of wine. Hearing something so personally close to home brushes my heart.

            “Thank you, Erica,” I whisper into her neck. “Do you think we should be mothers?”

            Erica turns to look at me so wholesomely I shiver. She grasps my hand again.

            “I think we should. I’m in my forties now, we’re financially secure and in love...”

            She smiles and kisses me.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. (:


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